Small hands reach for words on refrigerator
Take one word then another
Short lines begin to form
Two-line poems on refrigerator stay awhile
Until another idea replaces them
Small notepad with words written
Writing about sibling who is annoying
Short, short stories written were no one can find
Writing continued, on and off through school
Few poems written from class assignments
Saved in a small notebook or in desk
A gap when started working
No poems or writing were produced
A year of low; forced into unemployment
Poem writing to relieve oneself
From not being able to find job
Steadily writing grew from notebook
Copied into word documents many
Early one February morning
A blog was started to post about my poems
Slow and steady it began to gain
Followers flocked to read my poems
Until, I though I’ll compile a book
I gathered few poems; tweak them here and there
Found free self-publishing service for one still unemployed
Create a book, a cover too
Paid for only a proof which I could do
Promote book on blog; few copies sold
From no job but writing kept on going
Another year; another self-published book
More followers joined
Found a niche; writing poetry
Now a poet with nine self-published books
April 19th Prompt: An “origin story” is the back-story of how a character becomes a protagonist, or how super-heroines (or heroes) received their super-powers. Write a poem which imagines your back-story as either a poet or as a super-hero(ine).
I try to write
through the folds.
The crinkles are
getting in the way.
Through folds now hide
a word or two.
I devise this is hard to do.
Crinkle page; crease increase
until I can write no more.
Try to write through
I will not do no more!
April 18th Prompt: “To make this process more difficult” as poet Mark Irwin has written, crumple a sheet of paper. Uncrumple it, but don’t smooth it out and then write a poem on it.
My dog does not write poems.
She unable to anyways; for she has
four paws with no way to hold a pen.
I guess if she did start; would have to use
her mouth to write. But, then the words
she knows is not that much.
They would probably be: sit, stay, watch,
treat, leave it, toy, outside and dog.
Neither does she read poems, even though
it looks like she does when she is having a photo taken
of her with a poetry book under paws.
She would rather sleep the day away.
She plays with toys she grabs
from toy box in bed room.
Zoom around the room; smiles a smile
with doggy grin to say:
OK, right now try to chase me around the room.
She is happy just lounging nearby me,
as I stroke her fur when watching TV.
She loves the walks; we go outside,
sniffs everything, she can find nearby.
She licks to show she loves you,
that is the way she communicates;
besides being a good listener too.
If she does write poems, they are in her head;
For I have not seen any pages lying about.
Her parents which I will never know,
never wrote poems, they have paws too.
My childhood dog was the same too,
no poems I saw, but intelligent eyes
stared out to give me pause;
that if she could, she would have something to say.
My dog inspires me to write;
her actions are what speak volumes
in poems I write about her.
April 16th Prompt: The Polish poet Wisława Szymborska has a poem titled “In Praise of My Sister” that begins, “My sister does not write poems.” Write a poem in praise of someone you know who does not write poems. What does that person do instead?
Wind rustles outside
TV speaks in the background
A dog chomping on her treat
Crunch, crunch her teeth smash it
She looks up; TV ad entices information
Keyboard taps out words on computer
An itch behind the ear; quick scratch
Back to tapping away; a dog’s tongue lapping water
The heater strikes up to keep room warm
Wind continues to rustle outside
Tree branches tap the windows
As if to say I am here
A mouse click; a hand being licked by dog
Fingers tap away completing writing of a poem
Tree sits alone in desert
Under starry skies.
A red tent glows.
A single light shines within.
Staked under the single tree.
I lie listening to the silence.
The empty desert; no one for miles.
Quietness is serene and peaceful.
I soak it up; grab the pen.
Words comes to me from the stillness.
I write and write until I am content.
Sleep, I could not find My thoughts ran rampant Wild pass the circuit drive Zip, bounce around my brain They would not slow for sleep grabbed paper and pen did I Jot down thoughts going in my head they trickled out through the pen Slowed down to temperate speed Now sleep has finally come at last